On the day after Marsten’s failure to win a majority of the men to his side in the strike controversy, the young man went to Wimbledon, hoping to find consolation for his defeat in the company of the girl he loved. He felt that he was perhaps taking a rather unfair advantage of Sartwell in thus making a clandestine appointment with his daughter, but he justified himself, as lovers have always justified themselves, by claiming that a man was a fool to lose a trick when he had the card in his hand to take it. It was evident that Sartwell had no objection to the visits of Barnard Hope, and that he would be quite willing to have his daughter marry the son of his employer. If Marsten had known this the day before, he would not have been so self-denying as to refuse to see Edna Sartwell, and now that fate had interposed in his behalf, giving him the knowledge that he had a rival, he was not going to be idiot enough to throw away his chance.

He entered the vacant plot surrounding the empty house, and looked anxiously along the glass-topped wall for the signal that Edna had promised, under compulsion, to display. It was not in sight. He wondered if, after all, the girl had told her father of his visit. Let Sartwell get but the slightest inkling of it, and Marsten was certain the whole particulars would soon be within the manager’s knowledge.

He wandered up and down the wrong side of the wall disconsolately, not knowing what to do. Once he paused near where he had, on the previous day, jumped over. He thought he heard a slight cough on the other side. It might be a warning, or an invitation: the question was, which? She must know that he would be there, waiting for her signal; or perhaps—the thought was bitter—she might have forgotten all about him.

At the further end of the garden was a park fence, lower than the forbidding stone wall, which it joined at right angles. As anything is better than suspense, the young man resolved to take the risk of reconnoitering. He mounted the park fence and peered over the wall, but the trees and shrubbery were so thick that he could not see whether any one was in Sart-well’s garden or not; even the house was hidden from his view. Faint heart never climbed a stone wall: Marsten hesitated but a moment, seized a branch of an overhanging tree, pulled himself up to the top, chancing the glass, and leaped down among the shrubbery on the other side. He listened intently for a while, but there was no sound; then he moved cautiously through the bushes to the open space under the trees where he had talked with her the day before. No one was there, but he caught his breath as he saw a red-silk scarf hanging over the back of one of the chairs. She had at least thought of him, for that was undoubtedly the unused signal.

He was now in a greater quandary than he had been on the other side of the wall. She had apparently intended to throw the scarf over the broken glass, otherwise why had she brought it to their rendezvous; but, as she had not given the signal agreed upon, might there not be a danger that her father was at home? The young man knit his brows as he pondered on what explanation he would give Sartwell if he were discovered standing under the trees.

Marsten had half made up his mind to return by the way he came, when he saw Edna approaching from the house. The girl held out her hand to him with a smile that went to his heart, but her words were not so reassuring.

“I was watching for you,” she said, “hoping you would not come.”

“Hoping I would not come?” echoed Marsten, with a suggestion of dismay in his tone.

“At least hoping you would not come, except by the gate. I don’t like this. It seems secret and mean—as if we were doing something we were ashamed of. Now, we may not accomplish much good, talking about the strike, but we are certainly not doing anything either of us would fear to have the whole world know. There is no reason, now that your plans of yesterday have failed, why you should not have come to the front door like any other visitor, is there?”

“I suppose not.”

“Of course not,” cried the girl, eagerly, “and so I intend to tell my father all about this visit, even if I could not mention yesterday’s.”

“Oh, but you must not do anything of the kind,” pleaded Marsten, thoroughly alarmed. “You will promise me, won’t you, that you will not say a word of my being here to-day?”

The girl laughed and shook her head.

“I’ll not make another promise so foolish as yesterday’s. You see, my promise did no good.”

“What! Did you tell Mr. Sartwell I had been here?”

“No. I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t; but it made me feel wretchedly guilty when there was no occasion for it. What I mean is, that your plans did not succeed in putting an end to the strike, and so it would have made no difference after all, if I had told my father. Don’t you see that? No, I won’t make another such promise in a hurry again.”

“Miss Sartwell,” said Marsten, seriously, “you don’t understand all the circumstances; there are reasons why your father must not know I have been here. Although negotiations have failed for the moment, they will come on again shortly. If Mr. Sartwell knew I was here yesterday——”

“Oh, I intend to keep my promise about yesterday. I shall not say a word about that visit: it is of to-day’s I shall tell him.”

“But don’t you see? Yesterday’s visit led to this one. They are inseparably joined: you cannot mention one without leading to the other. Please promise you will say nothing about to-day’s either.”

“I won’t make any more promises. When my father came home late last night, he told me all that happened—what you had tried to do, and everything. I felt so guilty at having to keep anything from him, that I resolved to make no more promises to any one unless he knew of them and there was no need to feel guilty. I am sure he would have been glad to know we had talked about the strike, and were trying to help him; yet all because of that foolish promise I dared not say a word. I think, if you knew what I suffered, you would not ask me to keep anything from him.”

“Dear Miss Sartwell,” cried Marsten, with more of his affection for the girl in his voice than he was aware of, “I would not cause you suffering for anything in the world!”

Edna looked at him with wide-open eyes, surprised at his vehemence; then she laughed merrily.

“Why, how serious you are! After all, I shall soon forget about it; and although I won’t make rash promises again, I’ll think it all over, and if——but then, what is the use of ‘ifs’? I shall say to my father tonight that you came to see him, and that I talked with you about the strike.”

“That wouldn’t be true, Miss Sartwell. I didn’t come to see him; I came to see you.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, and you would have to tell him I climbed the wall. You can’t go in for half-truths, you know, and we haven’t talked much about the strike, have we?”

“Ah, but you came for that, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Oh, yes, of course. Nothing else; but you see it wouldn’t do to say anything about this visit to your father unless you told him everything. He would want to know why I came over the wall.”

“And why did you? Iam sure you might just as well have come through the gate. It would have been much easier.”

“I will next time I come. But you know the wall is there, and I came over it; so, without making any promise, I beg of you to say nothing about it to Mr. Sartwell, for he will want all sorts of explanations that I don’t quite see how I can give.”

“Well, then, I won’t. Oh, dear! that’s a promise, isn’t it? And I protested I wouldn’t. I suppose you’ll think that it is just like a woman. But I’ll never make you another promise—never.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Miss Sartwell. I would promise you anything.”

“Very well. Promise me you will tell my father you were here.”

The girl laughed as she saw his discomfiture when she so promptly took him at his word.

“There,” she cried, gleefully, “you see, you didn’t mean what you said. I really believe you are afraid of my father.”

“I am.”

“That’s very funny. I should like to tell him that. I can’t imagine any one being afraid of him.”

“Perhaps you have never seen him when he is angry.”

“Oh, yes, I have; but I just sit quiet and say nothing. He is never violent, when angry, as some men are, but his eyes half close, and his lips are set tight, and he doesn’t care to be spoken to just then; so that’s why I don’t speak. He was angry with you that night, was he not?”

“What night, Miss Sartwell?” asked Marsten, almost holding his breath. .

“The night at the office when I came in. The first time you ever spoke to me. Don’t you remember?”

“I shall never forget it,” Marsten said, in a hushed voice.

“Oh, you take things too much to heart, I can see that. You shouldn’t mind a little disappointment, nor think my father hard because he refused you. I spoke up for you at the time, as I told you yesterday, and I’m afraid I didn’t further your interests by doing so, for father thinks women shouldn’t interfere in business.”

They were seated opposite one another, the girl bending forward in friendly confidential attitude, the young man unable to take his eyes from her, listening, like one in a dream, to the entrancing murmur of her speech.

“You spoke up for me?” he repeated, as if soliloquizing.

“Yes, and father said——”

The girl paused, embarrassed, remembering that what had been said had not been complimentary to her listener.

“What did he say?” asked Marsten, breathlessly.

“Well, you know, he thought you too young and inexperienced for a responsible position, and you are not very old, are you? But by and by, when you have more experience, I am sure he will listen to you. The great thing is to gain his confidence,—at least that is what I should try to do.”

“Yes, I should like to win his confidence,” said Marsten, dolefully.

“Oh, it’s not difficult. All that is required is to do your duty. I think it’s nothing against a young man that he is ambitious. That ought to be in his favour, especially with a man like my father, because he has always been very ambitious himself: and I think the great drawback with workingmen is that they do not seem to care whether they better their positions or not. You can’t do anything for a man who won’t help himself: and you are ambitious, aren’t you?”

“Very. Too much so, I sometimes think.”

“Oh, one cannot be too ambitious, unless one is a man like Napoleon and thoroughly base and wicked. Then it’s wrong, of course. Now, if you want my advice—but perhaps you think I know nothing about these things?”

“Miss Sartwell, I would rather have your advice than any one else’s in the world, and I will follow it to the letter.”

“You do take things too seriously. What a weight of responsibility you would place upon my shoulders! No, you must hear the advice first, and then judge whether it is best to follow it or not. I think you should work along quietly for a year or two, doing your very best and saying as little as possible. Father likes a man who does things, rather than one who says things. He doesn’t believe much in talk. Then, when you see he trusts you implicitly, perhaps by that time he will offer you the situation; but if he doesn’t, you let me know, and I will speak to him about it. Oh, I shall approach the subject very diplomatically. I shall begin by asking how you are getting on at the works, and if he speaks well of you, I will suggest that you be given a better position than the one you are in. How do you like my plan?”

“It is an admirable one, but—but——”

“But what? Where is the objection to it?”

“There is no objection, except that I may get rather discouraged as time goes on.”

“Oh, that is nonsense. You are interested in your work, are you not?”

“Very much so, but if I could see you now and again, I—well—wouldn’t become hopeless or despondent, you see. If that could be managed——”

Edna sat back in her chair, and looked straight at him with clear, wide eyes that seemed puzzled, trying to see beyond what was plainly in view. Marsten, burdened by the consciousness that he was not dealing honestly with her, yet afraid to awaken her too prematurely to the realities of the situation, was as confused as most single-minded persons are when placed in a false position from which there is no escape without risking disaster. For a moment there arose in his fast-beating heart an heroic determination to cast all caution to the winds, and cry out, “I love you, my girl, I love you; I am poor, and your father has forbidden me to see you;” but he feared a repulse from the girl, more fatal to his hopes than the check he had received from her father. He bent his gaze upon the ground and curbed his impatience. He realized that honesty had not been the best policy when he had inopportunely confessed his affection for the girl to her father, although he thought at the time he had taken a manly and straightforward course. Had he been less impulsive, and tried to win still farther the confidence of Sartwell, he might perhaps have ultimately gained a footing in his chief’s house, and then who knows what would have happened! He had drawn upon the bank of confidence, and his cheque had been dishonored: he could not risk a second mistake of that kind.

“I don’t like your word ‘managed,’” said Edna at last, a little wrinkle of displeasure on her fair brow. “Your visits here do not need to be managed. You can come as any other friend of my father comes, and we shall have plenty of opportunities for talk. You persist in thinking that my father has some feeling against you, when I assure you such is not the case.”

Before Marsten could answer, the silence was sharply broken by the emphatic click of the gate, and the young man was dumbfounded by seeing Sartwell enter, stride up the path leading to the house, stop, turn his head toward the spot where they sat, then cross the lawn directly to them. Marsten sprang to his feet; the girl arose more slowly, a roguish twinkle in her eye. Here was the solution of the problem right to her hand, at precisely the proper moment. The expression of the three faces would have interested a student in physiognomy. Anger, delight, confusion, were reflected from the countenances of Sartwell, Edna, and Marsten, respectively; but the elder man was the first to control his emotion, and, as he approached, his face became an impassive mask, revealing nothing of the passion within. He cast a brief quick glance at Marsten, who stood there pale, in the attitude of one who has been trapped, and who sees no avenue of escape. A longer, more searching look at his daughter showed him at once that she had nothing to conceal. Her evident undisguised pleasure at his coming was too palpable to be misunderstood. He drew a deep breath of relief, but recognized instinctively that the situation required very delicate handling if the girl’s ignorance was to be maintained. Here the fates fought on his side, for each man, from directly opposite motives, desired the same thing: neither wished to have a conflict in Edna’s presence; neither could run the risk of full knowledge coming to her at that time. Luckily Edna’s eyes were all for her father, and she gave no look to the young man, in whose face and attitude were undeniably stamped both guilt and discomfiture. She was the first to speak.

“Oh, father, I am so glad you came; we were just speaking of you.”

“Yes, Edna, there are one or two adages bearing on the subject: complimentary and the reverse.”

Edna laughed brightly.

“We have been trying to settle the strike, and Mr. Marsten thought you would be angry if you knew he had been here—thought you might call it interference. I told him that was all nonsense, but I could see he was not convinced; so you come at the proper moment to solve the problem finally.”

“I see I came just in time. I am only too glad to have assistance in unravelling this perplexing tangle, and I welcome help from any quarter.”

“There!” cried the girl triumphantly, turning to her lover, who had by this time partially recovered his composure. “Isn’t that just what I said?”

“Mr. Hope told me an hour ago, Marsten, that you had visited him yesterday, and had done me the honour to call at Wimbledon afterwards; so I came home, fearing I might miss a second visit. Mr. Hope spoke very highly of you, and I do not wish to be less cordial than he in expressing my own opinion of your most disinterested devotion to the welfare of your fellow-workmen.”

Marsten moistened his dry lips, but made no attempt at reply. Timorous little Mr. Hope had not kept faith with him, then, and, after counseling him to silence, had blurted out all the particulars as soon as he came again under the influence of his masterful servant, and thus had precipitated this deplorable encounter. Edna looked from one to the other, a slight shade of apprehension on her face. The words of her father were all that she could ask, their tone was unexceptionable, and yet—and yet—there was frost in the air. She spoke with less buoyancy than before, still with confidence that all was as it should be.

“That was one of the very points which troubled us. Mr. Hope asked Mr. Marsten to say nothing about the Surbiton visit, while I felt sure you wouldn’t mind.”

“You did quite right, Marsten, in saying nothing about it when Mr. Hope asked you not to mention it, but Edna is right also in stating that it would have made no difference to me.”

“Now,” said Edna to the young man, “you see how groundless all your fears were, and how a few simple words of explanation clear away all difficulties. I hope you will visit us whenever you want to talk to my father—you would be pleased to have him come, wouldn’t you, father? Mr. Marsten has done his best to settle the strike, even though he failed.”

“I quite appreciate that, Marsten, and my house is always open to you.”

Edna glanced with a smile at Marsten; his eyes were fixed intently on Sartwell, who continued suavely:

“However, it is only right that I should let you know there will be no more need to discuss the strike. I have been played with long enough. It is now my turn to strike. On Monday the works will be going again. I have on file four times as many applications for work as I have vacancies to fill. My clerks are at this moment writing out some hundreds of telegrams, asking the receivers to report for duty on Monday morning. I shall have no more traffic with the Union.”

“Oh!” cried the girl, in dismay.

“Won’t you give me another chance with the men?” asked Marsten, speaking for the first time.

“There were only a few votes against us at the last meeting.”

“You have from now until Friday night. I give you up to the latest moment, and that is why I pay six times as much and use the telegraph rather than the post. Letters would do quite as well mailed on Friday. The works open on Monday, with or without you, so you see you have little time to lose.”

“I shall go at once to London and call a meeting of the men. May I see you at your office to-morrow?”

“Certainly. My office is always open: but remember, it is an unconditional surrender now. I’ll have no more parleying.”

“Good-by,” said Marsten briefly, turning on his heel and hurrying to the gate, father and daughter watching him until he disappeared. Sartwell sank down in one of the chairs, murmuring as he did so:

“Thank God!”

“Why do you say that, father?”

“Say what? Oh! Because a certain tension has been relaxed. I have seen Hope and Monkton off together for Germany this morning, and they will be gone for at least a fortnight. This leaves me a clear field, and I will crush this strike as I would an eggshell.”

Sartwell nervously clenched his right hand, as if the egg-shell were within it.

“I am sorry for the men, father.”

“So am I, my dear, if they stand out; but it will be their own fault. Experience is said to teach a specified class of individuals, and they are preparing for themselves a bitter dose of it.”

“Will you’ not take him back, even if they hold out?”

“Him? Whom? Oh! Marsten. If they do not come back in a body, I will never allow another Union man to set foot in the works again. But never mind the men; I want to talk about yourself.”

“About me?”

“Yes About the situation here at home. It is not exactly what I wish it to be, and I intend to try an experiment.”

“Do you mean what happened yesterday between mother and me?”

“I mean the whole situation. What happened yesterday was merely an indication of the tendency—I don’t know just how to put it, but it isn’t satisfactory.”

“I was at fault, father, as I said last night; I was worried and anxious—that is no excuse, of course—and then I said things I shouldn’t have said. I was sorry at once, but I am more sorry now when I see I have troubled you. It won’t happen again. I shall be very careful in future, and I am sure if you think no more about it I shall do better.”

“My dear Edna, I am not blaming you in the least, nor do I think you were at fault; that is, not entirely. I am not censuring any one; we are as God made us, and there are differences of temperament which sometimes cause friction. You are not having a fair chance just now. I care very little about your mother’s friends, and I have few friends myself; thus you have no companions of your own age whom you can have here, and whose visits you can return, as is right and proper. You are thrown too much on your mother and me for your friendship, and I am not sure that either of us is suitable. You are at an impressionable time of life, and I want to do my best for you; so I think I shall send you to some school where you will meet nice girls and form friendships that you will enjoy. Then you have a decided talent for music, which will be developed, and—there are many reasons for such a step.”

“Do you mean that I shall have to leave home?” asked Edna, with a tremour in her voice.

“I think that will be best. In a year or two you will look upon life with perhaps more philosophy.”

“A year or two!” cried Edna, as if she spoke of eternity.

Her father smiled.

“The time will pass very quickly,” he said. “In a year or two, when you come home, both your mother and you will be glad to meet each other. We sometimes grow to think kindly of the absent.”

The girl buried her face in her hands.

“Tut, tut, Edna, my own little girl!” cried her father, placing his chair beside hers and taking her almost in his arms. “One would think you were being sent off to Africa. I imagined you would be glad.”

“It isn’t that,” she sobbed. “It shows how dreadfully wicked you must think me when you are compelled to send me away.”

“Nonsense, Edna! It shows nothing of the kind. I can’t send your step-mother to boarding-school, can I? Well, then! I don’t think you wicked at all. I have not the slightest doubt but you said just what you were provoked to saying. There now; see what a hopeless admission that is to make to a rebellious daughter. No, no. I am not blaming you in the least. As I said before, I am blaming nobody. We are driven by circumstances, that is all.”

“And am I never to see you except when I come home?”

“My darling girl, that is the delightful part of it. You will see me, and I will see you, practically more often than we do now. What do you think of that? I shall select some excellent school, situated in a bracing spot near the sea. I believe it will be cheaper for me to take a season ticket on the railway there, I shall go so often. We will take long walks on the downs entirely alone, and talk of everything. We will have delightful little dinners at the wayside inns we discover, and now and then a grand luncheon, at some very expensive place with a window that looks over the Channel. Edna, it will be the rejuvenating of your old father. He rarely gets a sniff of ozone as things are now, but then——”

Edna, with a cry of joy, flung her arms around his neck.

“Oh, father,” she cried, “that is too good to be true! When can I go?”

“This very week, I hope. You see now how everything depends on the point of view.”